Erik
by M. Orchid
Summary: After the affair concerning Christine Daaé Erik is anxious to leave Paris. He finds himself in New York determined to start over, but his new life is interrupted when he finds himself in the midst of a series of disturbing murders. Leroux E/OFC
1. The Impertinent Persian

_**Erik**_

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**The Impertinent Persian**

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If you had been present at the Palais Garnier that winter morning, just after the sun kissed Apollo's golden Lyre atop the opera house, setting it aglow before stretching its embrace to the rest of the snow covered rooftops of Paris, you would have been witness to a most peculiar sight. A dark figure stood in contrast to the smooth sheet of white the great city had acquired overnight. The black shape was situated several paces back from the monstrous structure where it kept a silent post watching the progress of the dawn as it painted the building's edifice and poured down onto the boulevard. As the light grew the shape could be clearly identified as a gentleman dressed in his evening clothes and carrying a respectable walking stick, yet for what reason the figure had for his vigil, an observer could only presume.

But we may, dear reader, upon closer observation discover the identity of this mysterious gentlemen. For at the first sounds of a hansom making its way down the road, our subject broke from his observations and turned, rounding the building at an astounding pace. Despite the low angle of his black fedora, the white expanse of a mask was startling enough to make any Christian cross themselves in suspicion - for what honest man would cover his face?

On reaching the Rue Scribe entrance of the opera house, our intriguing person withdrew a ring of keys from the depths his cloak and with deft motions unlocked the gates before disappearing into the shadowed belly of Garnier's beast. Needing no lamp to navigate, the man skirted an upended cart and passed under a flimsy pasteboard arch, feeling along the wall for a spring only he knew the existence of. When his long fingers touched upon the correct spot, a section of the stone wall slid silently aside accompanied by a blast of dry hot air radiating from the waking furnaces just overhead.

With the bitter snow fall outside, any other might have lingered to enjoy the incalescent air, but he pressed on, his destination far from the eternally hungering monsters above. If he had cared to look up, he would have seen their glowing mouths opening and shutting with primal roars as devout shadows attended to them. But, with no interest in the above happenings, the masked figure descended the thousands of steps to the bowels of the Opera, his foot making no sound on any tread in the narrow tunnels which continued with seeming endlessness.

Around the depth of the forth cellar, the air became most frigid and the softest whisper of a current could be discerned from below. Soon the stone steps gave way to gravel, and once the man left the confines of the passage, he produced the queerest lantern from some secret place in his cloak. Needing no match, he brought it to a blaze. The green glow from the contraption, made of coloured misshapen glass and covered with all sorts of odd mechanisms, illuminated a rocky shore of a vast lake situated quite inconceivably. It was right under the opera house itself!

In fact, the foundations of the Palais Garnier could just be made out from the lantern's light. Downwards they plunged into the dark waters of the lake like a spider's long legs supporting its engorged body. Docked by the near-most one was a small boat, finely carved, and most likely appropriated from one of the prop cellars above - if the Egyptian faces and large sphinx that served as a figurehead were anything to go by. Taking up a nearby pole, the man launched to the boat and guided the vessel forward with practiced ease. On the far shore, he disembarked and seemingly vanished through a wall only to emerge in what had once been a fine set of apartments. Now the rooms were only shadows of what they had been.

Covered in a layer of dust and illy lit by a sputtering lamp, they were a most depressing sight. The uncommonly tall well-dressed man cut a very odd figure amid the decay as he sat down at the table. He casually unbuttoned his jacket before picking up a pen which lay among several empty syringes and overturned sherry glasses. Inking his pen from a bottle, finally discovered under a lady's fan, he began to compose the following note:

Dear Mr. Managers-

Regrettably, I have recently developed interests elsewhere and will be leaving you in peace. That is, I mean to say gentleman, that I will be vacating this Opera house with no plans of returning. I therefore relinquish my hold on box five starting next fortnight and no longer require salary. Pray, do not be too upset over my departure.

Yours Gentleman,

O.G

Just as he set down his writing instrument, he plucked it up again and added a postscript in a careless scarlet scrawl.

It would be my last request that Meg Giry be allowed to dance the lead tonight in La Slyphide.

Finished, he threw down the pen, unheading of the splatter it made as it struck the table top. And before the thing stilled itself, the seated man heard a footstep behind him.

"Erik."

The masked gentleman did not turn around for he knew very well who was addressing him. "Daroga." The word was hissed with as much venom in the tone as he could muster. Which, considering the perfect instrument that was Erik's voice, was sufficient enough to raise alarm in the other.

Only recently had he been in better spirits, eager to wash his hands of the Opera. The excitement of travel and the novelty of the unknown had roused him from his morphine, his drink, and his laudanum, but the presence of the Persian was enough for him to sink just a little back into the black mood which had been his dominant state of temper for the past two months. With the other came the sour association with the entire affair of Christine Daaé and the cursed Viscount.

"Why are you skulking about down here Daroga? I would entreat you to depart, as I find myself suddenly in a black mood." The Persian had removed his Astrakhan cap and wrung it in his hands as Erick spoke letting an uncomfortable silence fall between them before he worked up the courage to speak. Suddenly, he spotted the open trunks that sat among the disorder of the room and whatever speech had been at the tip of his tongue was lost in his surprise.

"You're leaving."

"Yes."

"Where will you go?"

"Where ever I wish to."

The Persian fell silent again and moved to stand by the mantel. There he fiddled with several odds and ends that had once been artfully arranged with great care. Eventually, his hand came upon a ribbon. Picking it up, he idly ran his fingers over it's satin texture. "Do not touch that!"

Instantly the ribbon slithered from surprised fingers landing atop several withered blossoms. Muttering apologies, the rebuked turned to find the the masked man had never turned around.

"Allah, you really do have eyes in the back of your head trapdoor lover."

The Daroga was relieved when Erik laughed, or as relieved as one could be at the maniacal sounds the genius made to express his amusement. It was a sound of the most disturbing quality. His great laugh started out softly at first, then crescendoed louder and louder until it filled every corner of the room and was felt in one's bones in a most uncomfortable and intrusive manner .

The masked man finally replied, his voice filled with sneer. "No, nothing so supernatural. I only have need of the well polished silver coffee pot in front of me, and I am quiet capable of seeing your meddling actions Monsieur." That being said, he picked up the object in question and went to set it upon the stove.

Erik returned from the small kitchen and gestured impatiently to the chair across from him before sitting down himself. "Sit and tell me your reasons for your intrusion into my house Daroga."

It never ceased to amaze the Persian how queer Erik's manners were. They were such that they walked a fine line between civility and outright rudeness. You never knew if he was joking with you in the manner of a cordial friend or was only moments away from bringing about your untimely death. Filled with uncertainty, the Eastern man took a moment to observe the other, seeing if he could discern any clue to his mood. With the mask covering all of his face save for his eyes, it was a difficult task for any man, even one as skilled in interrogation as the Daroga was, but, by all accounts, Erik seemed relaxed. His long form was stretched out in the dining chair, golden eyes half closed, his long fingers playing languidly with something in his lap.

Then realization struck the Persian, and he nearly recoiled in horror. The object sliding between his companion's fingers was none other than the infamous Punjab Lasso.

"I say Daroga, your manners are appalling today, you have not even inquired after my health!"

The Persian, now completely ignorant of how he stood and at a loss for anything else to say, responded, "How is your health my friend?" Erik threw up his hands, causing the other man to start in surprise.

"Poor Erik's health is dreadful!"

"Ah, well, that is most... unfortunate." The Persian looked about, eying the syringes, used glasses, and finally took in the several empty bottles of absinthe that lined the sideboard. "You have been chasing the dragon my friend."

Seeing no need for acknowledgment, Erik had stood and moved to the kitchen to retrieve the coffee and a cup for his guest. He continued to speak as he moved away, yet his voice remained in the chair across from the Persian. An awesome display of the talent he possessed as a ventriloquist. "You still have not told me the reasons for your visit."

"I just wanted to check in on you my friend." He murmured, quite put on the spot.

"You wished to see if I had finally passed on Daroga." The other said, his tone suddenly serious as he appeared again, and as he came into sight, the voice returned to its owner. "I promised _her, _you know, the death of the old Opera Ghost will happen before I leave and she will be plagued by that hideous monster no longer." He punctuated his words by slamming a bitter cup of coffee in front of his companion with such force that the Persian was surprised it did not shatter.

"I-Is there anything I can do to aid you in you, in your preparations I mean?" He looked over at the other who had resumed his seat and resting the tips of his fingers together, inspecting him over them in a most bored fashion.

"Perhaps... actually, yes." The masked man suddenly straightened and hastily moved to scribble something on a spare bit of paper. "Join me tonight for La Slyphide, in my usual box." He handed the fresh note to the Persian who waited for it to dry before carefully pocketing it. "Present that to Madame Giry, she will insure your entrance into my box."

As suddenly as his energy had come, it left him. He let out a terrible sigh and fixed his burning eyes on the other. "My tolerance for company seems to be waning quickly Daroga..."

That was all the warning the Persian needed, he bid the other good morning and departed, leaving his coffee untouched on the table. With a surreptitious glance at the other's retreating form, Erik pulled it to himself and tilted his mask just enough so he could savor the bitter drink, then stood throwing his cloak about his to the mantelpiece, he carefully attended to the disarray the impertinent Persian had caused. There he hesitated for several moments, his gloved hand hovering in indecision before he plucked the black ribbon from it's place and pocketed it. When his task was done, Erik turned on his heel and donned his fedora once again; he had a letter to deliver, and he'd be damned if he wouldn't give those two managers one last satisfying fright.


	2. Farewell to Box Five

**Farewell to Box Five**

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By late-morning, MM. Moncharmin and Richard were greatly unnerved. After taking breakfast at Café de la Paix, they entered their office where they discovered upon a side table a queer display. Arranged just so was a fine cognac, a box of equally fine cigars, and a note whose author was instantly known by the great grinning skull imprinted into the wax sealing the envelop. With some hesitation, M. Richard tore open the message and read its contents under the anxious eyes of his fellow manager.

"Dear God, tell me what it says man!"

"_He's _leaving!"

M. Moncharmin could not have crossed the room faster if someone had lit a fire under his coat tails. "So he is!" he cried after pouring over the scarlet scrawl. He gave a nervous sort of laugh and inclined his head at the offering left with the communication. "Shall we have a drink to celebrate?" Before he could give an answer, the cognac was being poured and M. Richard found a tumbler in his hand as his partner began a toast. But not a syllable had finished passing his friend's lips before a terrible voice filled the room...

_"And the night shall be filled with music,_

_And the cares that infest the day,_

_Shall fold their tents like the Arabs,_

_And as silently slip away."_ 1

The sound of glass shattering filled the room as MM. Moncharmin and Richard's tumblers fell from paralyzed fingers, and the two men scrambled from the room. They veritably climbed over each other as the narrow door frame did not accommodate both passing under it simultaneously. As they fled down the hall, the spectral laugh rang loud in their ears. The disturbing sound only drove them to greater hysteria, and eyes wide with terror, the two managers pushed violently past any confused persons that were unhappy enough to encounter them.

From his hidden place, a narrow passage between two walls, Erik snorted, feeling quite satisfied with the conclusion of his prank. The masked man tipped his hat in the direction of the fleeing managers then made his to his intended destination.

The hollow pillar of box five was not the most accommodating place. Especially when circumstances required one to arrive early to avoid interaction. The muffled sounds of dancers warming up reached Erik through the thick shell of marble surrounding him. Dull thuds of toe shoes on the boards was accompanied by the occasional trill of an instrument warming up or a young chorus girl's shriek of laughter. Every noise was familiar, and he took pleasure in each as a man does with the happenings of his own household. Then it came upon Erik in an instant - these domestic sounds were something he may very well never hear again. As the weight of his thoughts settled upon him, he lay his forehead on the curved wall of his cocoon, his thoughts turning to memories made in the Opera house and memories he had tried to bury there.

Suddenly, _she _flashed before his eyes. He saw her moving about the stage, in her dressing rooms, attending to her hair, drinking a glass of port at the house on the lake. Feeling his heart seize up in a most painful way at the onslaught, he reached into the pocket of his dress coat and pulled from it the black silk ribbon. He rubbed it between his gloved fingers before bringing it to the lips of his mask with reverence. He kept it there for some minutes, and has her gentle perfume filled the pitiful hole that was his nose, his eyes closed. The images swirled about in his mind as vivid as the moments they had captured. His heart was suddenly a painful drum in his ears serving as an accompaniment to Christine Daaé's voice, which snaked its way from the dark and forbidden place he had hidden it to haunt his conscious.

The sound of the box door opening and the strict tones of Madame Giry's voice roused Erik. He waited several breaths after the door had shut behind her before emerging. By this time, he had spent nearly two hours confined in the dark hollow of the pillar, and before addressing the Daroga, the masked gentleman allowed himself several moments to stretch silently, as his extreme height had obliged him to stoop in the low niche. After his spine was roughly back in the position nature had intended for it, Erik again donned his hat and took a seat at his companions elbow, dropping his cloak carelessly upon the back of his chair.

"What do you think of the Leading Lady?"

The Persian nearly jumped, his program falling to the scarlet carpet.

"Allah..." the eastern man exclaimed pressing a nervous hand over his fluttering heart before turning his attention to the object of the inquiry. "That pale little thing?" He asked peering down at Meg Giry who had just entered and was currently chasséing across the stage, the curls of her inky hair bouncing behind her with each step.

"She's..." The Daroga thought of all the times he had seen La Sorrielli's majestic form, a perfect specimen of womanhood, execute this very part confident and seemingly effortless in her motions. Then he compared it to this girl currently sauntering across the stage meekly, hardly using the large portion of the boards available to her.

He opened his mouth to express his disappointment, but Erik held up a gloved hand, cutting him off. "Wait, just indulge her for a little longer." The Persian did so wondering just what his friend was up too. He could however not help feeling a little sorry for the poor chit. While tradition called the Prima Ballerina's first scene should have concluded in a thunderous applause, Meg Giry was met by absolute silence. He saw her falter for a few moments, muddling the intricate foot work in her distress, and he was sure she was only moments from tears when she fixed her smile, squared her shoulders, and launched herself higher than the audience had ever seen a dancer reach.

"Ah, there she goes." Erik murmured, his eyes half lidded as he watched her progress. "You've been fortunate enough to witness the birth of a new leading lady Daroga," he murmured over the scattered and shocked applause of the audience, his eyes still trained on Little Giry's form as she executed a succession of Pirouettes with the most perfect technique. "There is nothing like an audience to promote a little discipline."

The Persian continued to look on, his mouth hanging half open with shock. Then he noticed the fierce look in her eyes, a powerful anger roared just under her porcelain shell. "That is more than discipline Erik!" He looked from the masked man at his side to Meg Giry's awesome airborne form then back to his companion. "Don't tell me... you and she... but Mademoiselle Daaé-" He was cut off suddenly by an iron grip on his shoulder. "Do not make the mistake of allowing that name to pass through your lips ever again Daroga." The words were punctuated by a warning squeeze, then the hand was gone and Erik was reclined next to him once again, legs crossed and inspecting the program.

He did not lift his eyes as he addressed his companion again, "But as to prevent any snooping you may be inclined to engage in, I will let you know that I owed her mother a favor and was not opposed to using my position as Opera Ghost to persuade management and contact the girl. When I did, I may have implied some ...consequences if her performance was poor."

The Persian sputtered. "But she's just a girl!"

"Yes, and a superstitious one at that, needless to say she has had many late nights in the practice rooms since."

"Where you tutored her." It was not a question.

"Where I tutored her." Erik affirmed softly.

"Why?"

"I was indebted to her mother."

"Not significantly enough to willfully interact with a chorus girl every night for several months, I know that much my friend." At that statement, Erik returned his golden gaze to the twirling figure on the stage and was silent for several beats.

Then he replied softly, "_She _would have liked to see her friend succeed."

A silence came over them both and they returned their attentions to the stage, watching the progress of Little Giry and the other dancers until the curtain closed - the first act had drawn to conclusion. Erik was out of his chair in an instant and within the obscurity of the shadows before the house lights illuminated the vast room. Crossing his arms, he leaned against the wall and looked over at the Persian. "Now as to the real reason of our outing tonight", Erik began to pace the edge furthest most wall of the box, trailing his hand idly along the divider, "I need a man to represent me during my sea voyage. I can not do very much without raising suspicions." He gestured casually to his covered face as he spoke.

"His character is of no consequence, in fact it may be better if it is a little shady for he will have to engage in a lie." The masked man nodded absentmindedly agreeing with himself before the Persian interjected, interrupting whatever inner dialogue the masked man was engaged in. "Well, if I am fetch you such persons, you must certainly tell me where you are headed. No sane man would agree to such terms, traveling with an unknown man who hides his face and to an undisclosed location." Erik laughed in his disquieting way for several moments. "Oh Daroga, you forget Erik knows much more of the world than his Daroga, Erik's experience knows very well that money will settle any problems a gentleman would have with those terms." The Persian just shook his head and did his best to keep his skin from crawling at all the things his companion had seen in his life. "I'll see what I can do."

"Excellent! You will find find an envelope in your jacket pocket. No, don't open it here. I can assure you of it's contents. There are 10,000 francs. When locating these gentleman, I would think you wiser than to take all of the money with you, a few notes will suffice. Assure them that they will receive that sum of 10,000 for meeting you at the Gare Saint-Lazaren noon next Monday fortnight wearing their best suit and with anything they do not wish to part with on their person." The Persian gave his companion another dubious look, but knowing better than to quarrel with the other, he settled for inquiring how he would find Erik on the appointed date.

"Oh, I will find you..." Erik murmured. "I had thought of traveling as a corpse at first-, Oh don't look so." He chided at the Persian's sudden white complexion, "But the idea of exposing myself in such a way at this age was not very agreeable to me, so I've divined another method that I think will work very well, very well indeed."

Around them, the din of society swelled once again as the well dressed gentry poured back into the theater and Erik guided the Persian back to his seat by the elbow as the chandelier above them dimmed. The eastern man eyed the fixture warily and could not help but wonder if Erik had some fresh disaster planned for this evening. But his attention was soon caught up on stage as Meg Giry leapt from the wings of the stage, a vision of white gossamer, she appeared a swirl of morning fog stirred from its low rest over a lake. The ballerina's skirts bellowed behind her, barely able to keep up with the energy of her jumps and turns. Suddenly her awkward form was no longer so. She had morphed into something else entirely. Her slightness, inky hair, and dark eyes only lent to the transcendental performance occurring. She had truly become a spirit of the forest in a way no one, not even La Sorelli, had every achieved, and when it was all over and she came back to the world, limbs shaking as the spirit of the dance left her, the audience was on their feet, cries of bravo overwhelming the majestic theater.

Notes:

1)_ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_


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